


The Red Rose

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Historical Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Medical Procedures, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War of the Roses AU. The year is 1461 and strife is ripe between supporters of the houses of Lancaster and York, King Henry VI's Queen and Richard of York's sons, supported by the Earl of Warwick. The second Battle of St Albans pits one camp against the other. One knight seemingly falls, forgotten by everyone except the man he's rescued by, Merlin, who tends him when it seems he has no future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Rose

The rain beats the ground into mulch but Merlin trudges on, a hand before his mouth and nose to drive away the stench. He avoids the dark rivulets of blood that meander across those clots of earth that have been turned over by horses' hooves as if ready for tilling. He also gives a wide berth to the larger pools of the stuff, over which flies hover. He keeps an eye out for severed limbs and other horrible mementoes.

He doesn't want to have a repeat of the accident from an hour before, when he tumbled to the ground only to find himself face to face with a maggot-eaten corpse. He retched then, spitting bile onto the clumpy soil. He's more careful now, proceeding at a sedate pace, slogging across the vast field close to the heath.

As he advances his eyes skitter away from the tangled jumble of bodies, the bloodied limbs and torsos, the severed flesh. He deliberately doesn't gaze at the holes in the fallen's ribcages, at the bloated body parts; doesn't take in the ruined flesh and the carrion crows feasting on it.

Not listening to the calls of the birds circling the field overhead, he pushes on; he ignores their squawking and their shrieking, the flapping of their wings, their fluttering and battering. He's so bent on not paying attention to these sounds that he almost misses the one that hits his ears when he's halfway across this field of death.

Cosidering how dangerous it is he shouldn't stop, but he does. He lets his eyes roam over the meadow but can't pinpoint any source for that noise. So, shaking his head at himself for projecting his fears into noises, he adjusts his satchel on his back and proceeds on. He's feet deep in the boggish ground when he hears it again. And this time he knows where the sound's coming from. There's no mistaking it. Despite the knot in his stomach and the voice in his head that's telling him it would be more prudent to scarper, he halts in his tracks.

He tilts his head and hears the sound again. As much as he wants to tell himself that it's all in his head, or that it's those mysterious voices from the forest again, he knows it isn't. That was a moan if Merlin ever heard one. Gulping, Merlin forces himself to look, to scan the area immediately around him. This time he watches the corpses of the fallen men, takes a look at the coils of chain-mail still clothing them, at the weapons (those that weren't taken away by victors and scavengers) still lying at their sides. He counts one, two, three, ten, fifteen. And this just in his immediate vicinity. Yes the sound didn't come from that far away, Merlin knows this, so he checks the bodies again, giving the area around him a more thorough scope-out.

Most of the fallen have their eyes and mouths open and there's no telling if that's just a death rictus or if one of them is alive. But for those whose stare is too glassy to be that of a living, breathing person, that is.

Before moving on, Merlin looks back over his shoulders and then ahead, wraps his cloak more securely around him, and only then does he slog on. He checks each corpse in a hundred yard radius, the bodies of young men, old men, thin men, thick-set men. Some still look as though they're alive and just asleep, though of course they're not, for who would sleep half buried in mud? Some are so obviously dead – and revolting – that Merlin needn't bother checking on them. He would be wasting time and, frankly, he doesn't want the memory to haunt him.

Others, however, are more doubtful cases, so Merlin bends over them, lowers his ear to their chests for signs of life. There are none. The more negative feedback he gets, the more sure he is he should just get a move on before darkness encroaches and before something worse than dead men needs to be faced.

Yet he's positive he heard a noise and he's in its thrall. Again he flits from body to body, quickly taking pulses, listening for a breath, watching them for movement. He doesn't detect any. He's about to give up, his knees hurting from moving through the sludge, his body too heavy to keep his muscles in gear, when he thinks he sees something, a chest lifting. It's enough to give him a renewed sense of purpose. 

Spurred by it and the desire to be away from this place long before nightfall sets in, he dashes towards the fallen man. He plods across the slough, then climbs the to the other side of the depression and reaches his objective. 

Since the man is lying face half-down in the mud, Merlin can't tell much about him. He can't tell if he'd breathing or if he's not. He isn't even sure his eyes didn't deceive him when he detected movement. So, despite terrible misgivings, he kneels on the ground, knees sinking in deep in it, and tries to roll the man onto his back.

With some huffing and puffing he turns him over and once he has he establishes that the man is both breathing and direly wounded. His chest is rising shallowly enough to confirm the first item. And as for the wound, that's rather obvious too. Its true nature may be concealed by the layers of chain-mail and jerkin, but Merlin's not stupid and knows that all the blood congealing around the spot the man's lying on isn't a sign of a minor scrape. Merlin thinks he's knees-deep in it. Even the man's chain-mail is stained russet.

Passing febrile hands over the man's body, Merlin assesses the damage. He counts a gut wound that might be pretty bad when stared at without the impediment of armour and clothing as well as a minor gash on the thigh. He's attempting to shift his fallen knight – for a knight this man must be given the quality of his boots, chain mail, and belt buckle – when he opens his eyes. 

They're sky blue and unfocused, though they don't look empty. They look panicked rather; pupils widening with the sting of fear. The man releases a harsh breath and then one of his hands goes for Merlin's throat. There's not enough pressure to choke him, but Merlin's positive the man would have tried it had he had the strength to.

Putting pressure on the man's wrist, Merlin rasps out. “I'm here to help.”

The man doesn't seem to understand his words so Merlin tries again, “I don't want to hurt you. I'm not a soldier and I'm not supporting any side.”

Merlin doesn't think the man has comprehended his words, surely not fully, but he does let go of his choke-hold. Merlin wagers it's because it was too tiring for the man to try and keep squeezing the living daylights out of him rather than for lack of trying.

“Where's the King?” the man asks, letting Merlin guess a few things as to his identity. Before Merlin can reply, the man, however, swoons.

It's just as well in a way. Merlin's reply would have been 'I don't know', which is nothing but the truth, yet who knows whether the knight would have believed him. Given that the knight is so prone to attack in the face of bad news, Merlin doesn't count himself the loser in this exchange. Better that the man be sleeping than Merlin dead. Still with the man's loss of consciousness a new problem arises. How to move him from here.

Merlin is young and should be able to make the distance, but he hasn't eaten in a while and he just isn't strong enough to carry the man the two miles that separate the heath from his little hut in the forest.

Yet somehow he must or the knight will die.

At the thought Merlin starts replaying the picture the man cut after he'd woken up, seeing the light of fear that briefly showed in his eyes again, only in his mind's eye this time; the flight or fight instinct in them is still as moving as when Merlin first realised it was there. He can't make the man's fears true and abandon him.

He must save him somehow. One thing is certain: if Merlin leaves the knight here, the man's as good as dead. If the wound doesn't do him in, then thieves will. Merlin's positive the knight's still got valuables on him. They will lure any ragamuffin tempted to loot close. And if it's not that, then a member of a passing army might do the deed. Death's sure to happen if the man runs afoul of the dregs of the crowd he doesn't owe allegiance to. Any knight from the other side would happily finish the job and count himself proud for it; one more enemy down.

After all Merlin believes that one side is much like the other and that both are blood-thirsty. There's no trusting them, not knights, not lords, and not even yeomen or foot soldiers.

Knowing all this, Merlin must do his best to remove his knight from this field of death and bring him somewhere safe.

The question is just how.

He could use those branches over there and make a stretcher; his cloak could be the canvas holding the man's weight. Yes, that's an idea but one that'll take time. Unless he breaks his promise.

He hears his mother's voice again, telling him to watch out. _“Don't do anything when people are around. Don't give them cause to question you, my son. It's far too dangerous.”_

With a witch just burnt at the stake at the town's assizes Merlin wasn't able to deny his mother's plea. Yet now a rattled breath is enough to make him rethink that ancient promise. Who can he hurt these days? No one, that's the answer.

Closing his eyes, he lets his magic surface. He doesn't even need a spell and the stretcher's fashioned. It's true that he can't float stretcher and body all the way home. That would attract too much unwanted attention. But now he has the means to carry the man and that's all that matters.

“It will do," he says, his magic helping him carry the knight over to the stretcher. “It will do.”

With the knight snugly borne by the stretcher, Merlin adds, “I promise I'll tend you, whoever you are, Sir Knight.”

 

***** 

 

By the time Merlin makes it home, night has fallen and he's ready to plonk face down on the nearest surface. With all the dragging he's done he feels like a pack horse and is short of breath. But repose can't be achieved now.

He has a man to help. 

Once he has the stretcher in his hut, Merlin puts a plank before the window to obscure outsiders' view of the goings on, then uses his magic to assist his fallen knight onto his bed. Just in case the man should wake before Merlin's done, he does most of the work himself, foregoing magic. He just gets some extra boost when it comes to the heavy lifting.

Once he has him on the bed, Merlin proceeds by stripping him naked. What he sees is enough to make Merlin think that, wounds aside, this man is – or was before the battle – fighting fit. He has muscles that speak of hard training and implicit power. He has the body of a warrior, primed and honed for war. It's a pity that such beauty and potential should have been wasted on a battlefield, destined to be hacked at and run through for causes that Merlin finds empty. If not for the wounds he received on the heath, the knight looks like he was geared to live a long life. Life or death are certainly a matter of chance, but this one man might have lived a long life based on his prior state of health alone if an enemy blade hadn't interfered. “War is so senseless,” Merlin says before he starts busying himself with the essentials that will allow him to heal his knight.

First he gets a rag from his hearth rack. He dips it in the water he stored to use in the morning. Theoretically, he shouldn't it, but it doesn't matter. He can go get more at the river – as far away from the heath as possible, of course – tomorrow. For now he needs this supply to clean the knight, who's covered in mud and dirt from the battlefield. The dirt can't be a positive factor. It doesn't allow Merlin to take a proper look at the wound and he's pretty sure all of it sticking to the laceration can't be doing the knight a world of good.

So Merlin sponges as much of the knight's body clean as he can, giving the abdomen area as much attention as possible. The rest of the man's body, neck and arms, will have to wait. Merlin needs to patch up that major wound first.

It might have been years, but he still remembers a thing or two as to how to go about this. Remembering an art learnt long ago, he feels the knight's abdomen, trying to establish whether it's filled with blood. It doesn't seem to be. The stomach is not taut and swollen and there's no bruising. But the wound is gaping open, jagged at the edges and quite deep. It's still spurting blood too, not as much as it must have before, but steadily enough to be a threat to life. 

Merlin needs to stitch that wound quick. And before that he must cauterise it. He's moving towards the fireplace with the intent of heating up his knife, when the knight wakes again, at the worst possible moment. 

Breathing fast, he scoots up the bed, eyes as wide and full of fear as they were before when he first woke in Merlin's presence. Only they're darting around Merlin's hut; this time and latch onto Merlin's axe, the one he uses to chop wood. It's not a battle axe by any means, Merlin would have no need for one of those, but it could kill with one blow, if that blow was placed correctly. 

Even though he's holding a knife, which might be construed as a symbol of aggression, Merlin lifts both hands up. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he says as he did before on the battlefield. “I'm actually trying to heal you.”

The man says nothing but his intent is still clear. His eyes do not leave the weapon and Merlin can see his body coil as though he's thinking of springing for it. Whether he can make the dash is doubtful, but Merlin's not stupid enough to let him.

He darts back to the bed, putting himself between knight and weapon. He realises that this is risky, that he's tempting this trained warrior to react, but using his magic for self defence is most decidely out of the question too. He doesn't want to out himself to this man. He means him to live and leave without any knowledge of Merlin's abilities. Yet he doesn't mean to go down like a lamb to the slaughter either.

Still determined to defend himself against all foes, the knight tries to haul himself up and throw himself at him. He's half way across the space between them, when he gives a rough cry and topples down, crashing to his knees. Merlin sheds the knife he originally meant to cauterise the wound with and goes to his knees. He gathers the man as close as he can, considering how skittish he is, and tries to exude as friendly an air as possible. “I swear,” he says in as calm and soothing a voice as he can muster, “I just want to patch you up.”

“Who are you?” the man croaks, leaning his head against Merlin's shoulder in exhaustion. The fight instinct goes out of him with a sigh. “A physician?”

“Too rustic for that,” Merlin says, then realising his admission might sound alarming to his prospective patient, he adds, “But my late uncle was. And I helped him some. I was his apprentice, you might say”

“Might say?” the knight asks before coughing, his ribcage shaking with it and making him drop the subject and with it his doubts.

“I know my stuff,” Merlin reassures him, helping him back to bed and appreciating the fact the knight is moving with him without resisting. “And I'm your best chance right now. I could go into town, but it's--”

The man's hand closes around Merlin's forearm, pulling tight at the muscle, probably to ensure that Merlin listens to him. “Don't,” the man says. “You can't. I--”

Merlin eases the knight onto the bed. “Let me guess. You're afraid of being handed over to your enemy?”

Merlin's knight clams up and looks away. For the longest time he doesn't say anything, likely fearing he'll give himself away if he does. “Who won?” he asks at last. 

“I don't know,” Merlin tells him. On the previous day the battle protracted itself till dusk and Merlin wasn't so stupid as to go and check who'd won or lost. He had no interest in that. So he spent the night barricaded at home.He only set out today to go and make certain that his friend Freya, who lives in town, was fine. War is ugly and Merlin wants to protect his friends from the ravages of it as much as possible. Protecting Freya was the reason that spurred him to go earlier that morning. Yet he didn't learn much of what had gone down and he's still mostly ignorant as to the significance of the events following the battle. “I heard rumours in town today but I don't know what they mean.” Merlin tries to force the knight down so he won't move and cause himself further injury. “And now's not the time to think about that anyway. There's your health to think about. I think that takes precedence over men's wars.”

The knight tries to sit up. “Please, I need to know if the king was freed, if is he's alive.”

“Lancastrian then,” Merlin guesses though he can't care less. He'd save this man wherever his loyalty lay.

The knight doesn't address Merlin's guess. Rather he pouts through a grimace of pain. “Can you put me back on my feet so I can rejoin the others?” he asks, breathing copiously through his nose. “So I can fight?”

Assured that, despite his talk of rejoining the army, the knight won't leave the bed for now, Merlin picks his knife up from where he dropped it. “No,” he says, “I can't perform miracles. I can stitch you up and sit by you, not make you so well that you can fight so soon.” And I can hope you won't die, Merlin thinks, and doesn't say for fear of scaring his patient.

“But my honour--” the knight insists, shifting on the bed as though he's trying to haul himself upright, forehead so shiny with sweat his talk of honour sounds completely whacky, like missing an obvious point. This man's priorities are infinitely messed up.

Merlin interrupts him before the knight can say what Merlin's suspects he's about to. “Your honour doesn't require you to die for Lancaster.”

The man huffs in pain, his hand covering his wound and coming away bloody. “You're a peasant,” he says with an ugly grimace. “You can't understand.”

Merlin suppresses the anger at the man's implied barb and says, “Maybe. Maybe not. Either way you won't be of use to anyone dead, My Lord.”

Though the man's clearly on the rack pain wise, he suppresses a snort that's like a laugh. It would have been a laugh had the knight been hale and well. “You-- you make that word sound like an insult, peasant.”

“It's Merlin to you, My Lord.”

“I'll call you by your name when you stop using honorifics as an insult.”

After that they have no time for pleasantries, if what they exchanged were such. The knight is getting paler by the minute and while his extremeties are cold, his face burns hot to the touch. There's no time to waste. So Merlin sets to work. He picks up the wet rag he used before to clean his patient and then heats the knife on the fire. When he's ready, all necessaries at hand, he starts.

When he goes back to the bed, the knight looks wan but aware of what's about to happen. 

When he sees the knife, his eyes go rounder, but he sets his jaw determinedly. “Do what you have to.”

Merlin wants to ask if the knight's current bout of courage and submission is for his king too, but abstains. He's seen many a man waste their lives to fight battles that aren't theirs. They do so in the name of glory and honour, and Merlin's not sure he approves. But he's not about to make a case for his principles when there's more important things that need doing. So he gives the knight the only other pillow he has beside the one he's lying on and says, “Bite down.”

“I won't need that,” the knight croaks.

“You will,” Merlin flat out contadicts him, placing the flat of the blade against the torn edges of the wound. 

Almost as if to make a prophet out of Merlin, the knight screams and starts sweating big fat drops of sweat, but he doesn't faint again. He holds on through the smell of charred flesh and another application of the heated blade to his skin. He holds on through his muscles locking and his body thrashing. He only faints when Merlin starts stitching up the wound.

He's in a sound dead faint by the time Merlin's finished with that and begins working on the slash on his thigh.

**** 

 

That night a fever catches up with the knight. He burns hot, hotter than any person Merlin's ever tended. He's so worked up by fever that Merlin's afraid he'll lose him. He's so racked by it that he starts saying things that make no sense – talking about his father, his cause, and otherwise rambling on and on – his head moving from side to side on the pillow, probably seeking the solace of cool sheets. Short of breath, his chest heaves. Merlin hopes his lungs won't give up on his body.

All night long Merlin strives to cool the knight down, to hold him to the bed when he writhes, and to cover him up with cool sheets when he starts to tremble.

When, by dawn, the fever hasn't gone down, Merlin decides other measures are needed, medicinal ones. Being short on that kind of supplies, he elects to go out and back to the woods to get them. 

His cloak gone, he doesn't cover himself in preparation for his outing. He just closes his door behind him and hopes the knight will be fine alone for a while. It's not as though Merlin can find a nurse to sit by his side, not on a day such as this when most peasants are hiding in their homes for fear of army stragglers.

Traipsing back to the forest takes Merlin an hour. Ordinarily it wouldn't have but today he's choosing roundabout roads that will help him keep away from both town and heath. He wants to avoid those areas for fear of roaming bands of soldiers. In the twenty four hours since the battle the looting has been been savage, bands of northerners falling on town and countryside, pillaging, not so much at the orders of Queen Margaret, or so he's heard, but in spite of them. 

Thanking his lucky stars, Merlin meets with no one on the road, no sign of either army, of brigand or soldier. So he starts quickly collecting the materials he needs. He skins the bark from a yew tree, and picks yarrow and fever-few. As an after thought he plucks some thyme to burn; it'll prevent infection. When he has enough herbs to prepare powders and salves, he makes it back to his hut, hoping the knight has survived his absence.

Merlin's fear is assuaged when he establishes that the knight is indeed still breathing. That doesn't mean Merlin can relax though. Time is pretty much of the essence here, so he quickly sorts out the essentials to prepare a potion. Swiftly, he displays all the ingredients on his trestle table and then arrays all the utensils he needs to prepare a potion on the same surface as well. When everything is within easy reach, he starts weighing and choosing the ingredients. Not having done this for a while, he isn't sure he remembers the needed quantities, but he doesn't think he can rely on such subtleties now. He needs the potion and he can always correct the dosage by way of silent magic.

Feverishly, he works away with mortar and pestle. When he has a sufficient amount of crushed and mixed herbs, poultice-like, he sets some water on the boil. Once the water is hot enough, he dilutes the medicament and before long he has a potion he can put a charm on. Magic always boosts the effects of potions.

When the potion has settled, he pours it into a wooden cup. It smells as horrible as Gaius' original recipe did. It portends well, given that Gaius was a skilled physician. 

Bearing the cup, Merlin walks back to his bed and feeds the knight the substance. He's out of it still so Merlin has to help him swallow by massaging his throat. When that's not enough and more of the potion is spat out than goes down, Merlin places himself on the bed behind the man and, holding him upright against his chest, helps him drink. Only this way does the knight imbibe enough of the potion to satisfy Merlin's clinical gaze. When all the potion's gone, Merlin pats the man's shoulder, saying, “There, there,” and then thinks of a silent prayer. He hopes the gods of nature, rather than those men invoke when burning healers at the stake, are listening.

Of course the knight's still so riddled with fever that he does nothing but moan and stay unconscious but the fact the he's extracted a noise from him, makes Merlin feel more optimistic about his recovery.

Now that he no longer needs it, Merlin places the cup on the window sill by the bed and then tries to wriggle out from under the knight's weight. But the knight's heavy, unhelpful and Merlin's too tired to actually succeed. After all he didn't sleep a wink the night before and he walked miles today, to and from the village, carted the knight around, and then went back to the woods again. It's enough to do any man in.

So, against his will, Merlin closes his eyes. It's going to be just for a moment, he tells himself, but his reason dims the more he lets himself sink into his reverie.

Merlin can't fight falling asleep. 

 

***** 

 

Merlin wakes with an elbow in his stomach and the distinct impression there's something he's forgotten. It's only when he hears the grunt that he realises he's not alone in bed. Recollection strikes him. “I'm so sorry,” he says, moving from under the knight. “I was trying to get you to drink the potion and I fell asleep. I'm so sorry.”

The knight acknowledges him with another low, throaty sound.

Merlin slinks out of bed and prepares to examine his patient. The knight is cooler to the touch but he still has a fever. “You're better, aren't you?” he tells him to give the man some comfort.

“Not dying unshriven, hopefully,” the knight mumbles through cracked lips.

Merlin doesn't tell him that he doesn't believe in the God they kill witches for, and that his worries sound foreign to Merlin. But Merlin does want the knight to rest easy, so he says, “You're not dying so we can spare a priest yet.”

The knight feebly rolls his eyes at him. “How do you know?” he says in a voice that is choked and raspy.

“Healer, remember?” Merlin tells him. “By the way, what happened to you wanting to join the fight? I thought you were raring to go.”

“This night happened,” the knight tells him. “It's made me so tired I can't even lift an arm." Musingly, lost to the drugs in the potion, he adds, "I've just never felt so tired before.” 

Merlin nods. The knight spent a bad night indeed. Merlin was a witness to that. “Let me get some more potion into you.”

The knight stops him from moving away from the bed by grabbing his wrist. “Water, please. Just give me some water.”

So Merlin pours him some water first and feeds him small sips. After he's helped the knight getting his water fix, he administers some more of the potion. There's not much left, but Merlin gives it to him nontheless. Where the first cupfuls were got at, there's more to be found. Nature's plentiful that way. Supplies low, Merlin purposes to go and get more of the base ingredients later in the day. The knight needs his healing draught. 

When the knight's drank his dose, Merlin puts the cup by. He means to tuck the man in and re-do his bandages but that's when his patient falls asleep again. Like this Merlin probably won't be able to redress the bandages at all, not without robbing the man of more sleep. That's not something he's keen to do since sleep is a key factor in healing.

“Well, at least sleep will help you heal,” Merlin says, hoping his words are true and that those slumbers won't take the knight with them.

 

**** 

At dinner time the knight wakes again. He doesn't look better, the same pale, hollow-cheeked look characterises him, but he doesn't look worse either. 

Merlin approaches him. Pulling the blankets off him, he tells him, “Time to change the bandages.” 

Merlin's wrapping fresh linen around the knight's chest when the man swallows and asks, “Why are you doing this?”

Merlin makes a knot of the bandage hem and then makes sure it's not too tight. “Because no man deserves to die alone on a battlefield like you almost did.”

The knight watches him closely, wincing when Merlin adjusts the layers of linen warding his wound from infection. “Yet a lot of people do and think that death--” The knight scrunches his nose up in pain then hisses out the words – “honourable enough.”

“I don't think there's any honour in sacrificing yourself for a cause that only benefits rich people striving to get richer and more powerful.”

The knight looks away, towards the small window and at Merlin's narrow view of the patch of countryside rolling outwards towards the heath. “What about your retainers though? The men who look up to you for protection? If you don't support your overlord, your overlord will retaliate. That means armed conflict. By inaction you doom your men the same way as if you acted promptly and presented a muster of men doomed to fight.”

“I suppose they'd be happy to take the risk if they're guaranteed life for now,” Merlin says curtly. One day more, a year more. Merlin's positive that the family members of those conscripted into service by their lords would love to have that time to call theirs.

“Sometimes war comes to you though,” the knight says, breathing accelerating as Merlin tightens one end of the bandage, “especially if you don't provide the men and arms you owe. Not doing anything is just as risky as hastening to join under your lord's banner. Because then you're a traitor.”

Merlin sees how the knigth's theory is reasonable but he still believes that that view of things doesn't take into account the plight of the common man. The common man dies because the higher ups have said so. That's not something Merlin advocates. Not wanting to irritate his patient and get him all worked up though, Merlin says nothing of his true beliefs. He's good enough of a healer to hold his tongue.

Spurred by Merlin's silence, the knights continues questioning Merlin. “Are you such a coward and so afraid to fight,” he asks, wincing again when Merlin starts on his thigh wound, “that you would risk your people by inaction, that you'd renege vows of fealty, betraying the expectations of your family, and blacken your name?”

Merlin undoes the old strips of linen clothing the wound. “This will need some more cleaning up,” he announces, stepping sharply away from the bed to retrieve some fresh strips suitable for dressing and ignoring the knight's words and the way they sting like a slap to the stomach. “You probably need some salve for that too,” he adds, his eyes searching his cupboard for the correct pots and jars. “I'll likely have to go get the ingredients.”

The knight sits up in bed or at the very least tries to amidst grunts and grimaces. “Merlin, I didn't mean to imply you were craven." 

Merlin leaves his hut to go looking for the supplies he needs to prepare more of the knight's salve.

"Merlin, I apologise," Merlin hears the knight say when, door slammed, he's well past his own threshold.

 

***** 

During the following week Merlin changes the knight's bandages twice daily and gives him more healing draughts. He does this every time the knight seems to be in need of them, but not too often, for Merlin knows the ill effects of ramping the dosage up too much.

For the most part the knight sleeps. His fever only spikes once on the second night, making Merlin fear the knight is so little out of the woods that he may die yet.

That night the knight raves more than he did on the first one, but his ravings take on a strange quality. When he stops apologising for his misconduct to a man Merlin presumes to be the knight's father, the man starts talking to Merlin, saying things like, “Your eyes are blue like the veil of a Madonna,” or, “Kind, you're kind. Let me kiss you.”

He even goes for that kiss he must have been dreaming of, straining for Merlin, his hand holding onto Merlin's neck, the look in his eyes feverish, haunted and full of desire.

Merlin understands this kind of longing, understands the passion you can feel for another man, but he isn't about to give in. As alluring as the knight's body is and as enticing as his touch is, Merlin stops him. He cups his face and says, “Shh, easy. You don't know what you're saying. Rest now. Rest.”

Merlin helps him back down on the bed, covering the knight with blankets, and then starts telling him stories, mostly childhood fairytales involving magic, until the man sinks into deep sleep. 

Only then does Merlin find time to muse about the odd occurrence that stirred some unknown part of him into a state of uneasy excitation. He ponders and ponders, revolving the knights' words, looks and gestures in his mind, and finds he misses the fires of passion from his life.

Upon thoughtful refelction though Merlin doesn't regret his actions. Merlin has no idea whether the knight had any knowledge of what he was doing and, as much as the touch sparked something in Merlin, refusal was, at the time, the only option. The knight couldn't have known what he was pleading for.

“Merlin,” the knight says, some few hours later, not having abandoned his previous train of thought, his eyes tracking his every feature, his hands going for any part of Merlin's body within reach. “Please.”

“Hush now,” Merlin tells him, crooning softly in the hopes the knight will fall asleep again. “Hush, sleep, and you'll feel better.”

The knight falls asleep, leaving Merlin to look at him in a brand new light.

 

**** 

 

Merlin's dozing, his head on the table, when the knight wakes him. “So you don't have fields to till or any trade to attend to?”

Sleepily, Merlin rubs at his eyes. “As you can see.”

The knight narrows his eyes at him. “Then how do you support yourself?”

Merlin chooses to misunderstand that question. “I do have a vegetable garden in the back.”

The knight's brow puckers in thought. “Is that even enough to live on?”

Merlin shrugs his shoulders. “There's enough to feed you.” A change of subject seems to be needed. “By the way, aren't you hungry?”

The knight's stomach rumbles and that's all the answer Merlin needs.

“I suppose you are,” Merlin says, pushing off his stool and directing his steps towards the hearth. “Leak soup all right?”

“You didn't answer my question,” the knight says shrewdly, his eyes following Merlin around as he potters with pots and pails.

“You never told me your name,” Merlin tells him, arching an eyebrow while he fills the first pot he salvages from his pile of clean utensils with the last of their cooking water. 

“I--” the knight starts but he doesn't finish his sentence.

“Don't worry,” Merlin tells him, guessing the reasons behind the knight's reticence. “I suppose I can give you a name of my own choosing to call you by, for the time being.”

“You'd give me a horrible name,” the knight says, a smile playing around his lips.

Merlin puts water on the boil and salts it. “Nah, I'll have to call you something. I can't keep saying, hey, hello, knight I rescued.”

“Does you naming me mean I'm stuck here for the long haul?” the knight asks, a rather horrified look painting his features.

“You can walk out that door now,” Merlin says with a shrug while he chops leeks and dices garlic.

The knight, of course, does no such thing. He can't. Merlin's not sure he can stand at all. “I, um, I'll wait it out a few days.”

Merlin scoops up the diced vegetables and drops them in the pot. “You'll be Thomas for now.”

That's a rather declaratory statement, one the knight doesn't object to.

 

**** 

 

A couple of days later, Thomas finishes his first full bowlful of soup. Before he couldn't manage to finish a whole portion or he'd throw up the contents of one. “You're a horrible cook.”

“I'm making do with the means I have,” Merlin says, taking Thomas' bowl and setting it on the table before sitting on the bed.

“That's bullshit, frankly, Merlin,” Thomas says loftily. He must still be fighting the pain but he's most definitely trying his best to sound as put upon as any fussy nobleman might when faced with Merlin's lacking culinary skills. “I know innkeepers that can make do with fewer ingredients and yet manage tasty dishes.”

“Well, I'm better at potion making,” Merlin says, biting on his tongue soon after he's let that out. He doesn't want to imply he's a warlock.

Fortunately Thomas doesn't make the connection. He plays with the edge of his blanket and says, “I suppose I owe that ability my life.”

Merlin tips up an eyebrow.

“I do, don't I?” Thomas starts again. “I am thankful for that. I understand owing a debt of gratitude. And even though you're no...” Thomas flaps his hand tiredly about. “...no nobleman and have probably no notion of allegiance--”

Merlin cuts him off abruptly. “You're really unbelievable.”

“Why what did I say?” Thomas asks, sounding genuinely confused as to what he said wrong.

“Nothing,” Merlin says, and in two strides he's out of the hut before he can say something that will upset a man who's, after all, his patient. “Clotpole,” he lets out when he's fairly sure the subject of his insult can't hear him.

 

**** 

It's been ten days since Merlin took Thomas in and since Merlin hasn't heard a peep from the outside world, he thought himself safe. The hard knocks on his door belie that feeling of safety, of being past the worst, and tells a very different tale. Evidently both armies are still on the loose and Merlin chose not to see that.

As Merlin ponders what to do, the insistent rapping wakes Thomas up. 

Needing Thomas to be quiet now of all times, Merlin holds a hand up and tries to silence his patient with a look. If Thomas makes more noise and the person on the other side of the door belongs to the 'wrong' camp, they're both as good as dead. Merlin surely would be for harbouring Thomas and, as for Thomas, it all really depends on whether they can hold him from ransom or not.

That's assuming it's his enemies that are at the door of course. It could be his friends. But Thomas' friends aren't necessarily going to be Merlin's. They might slaughter him just because he's a peasant whom they have no care for. It would be up to Thomas to save him then. And while Merlin hopes he would, he can't be positive that would be the case.

As a security measure Merlin grabs a knife and only when he's armed does he open the door, making sure to put himself between it and the bed, so nobody can see who's lying on it.

“I'm Sir Edwin Muirden,” the person revealed to him says, his chest filling, “The Duke of Norfolk's lieutenant.”

Merlin pales. Norfolk stands with Edward of March and with the Earl of Warwick. That's a death knell for Thomas, who's apparently a Lancastrian through and through. “Good for you,” Merlin says in the saucy way of commoners who won't stand for noblemen's put downs. Merlin learnt that attitude from a friend, Will, who died long ago.

Sir Edwin's eyes spark at Merlin's rejoinder. “Less of the cheek, peasant,” he says. “And more helpfulness.”

As Sir Edwin talks, Merlin hears sounds come from the inside of his hut. He's sure Thomas is moving about, leaving the bed, with something, defence probably, in mind. His decision to bounce about is possibly causing his wound to reopen. This is so bad for so many reasons that Merlin doesn't want to contemplate the possibility of it happening. And he doesn't want Sir Edwin to take notice of what's going down, so he pulls the door behind him, making sure it's almost shut to, and says, “We peasants have nothing but cheek to offer, Sir Edwin. Poverty, you'll see, doesn't make for abundance.”

Sir Edwin looks satisfied with that answer, for he changes the subject. “Unfortunately, I can't make allowances for your poverty. I'm here to require a tithe of your goods. For the upkeep of the army.”

Merlin knows that's not exactly how things work, especially not if your side can't claim the throne yet, and realises this is only a covert threat to get Merlin's valuables. After all here an armed man stands, facing a peasant who's likely to own no weapons. What better victim in the eyes of a powerful aristocrat? “I thought my lord Warwick's army was no longer around,” Merlin observes, trying to catch Sir Edwin in the act of lying. In his comings and goings from his hut to the woods, Merlin certainly hasn't seen any trace of an army. Merlin bets Sir Edwin is a straggler, busy looting and making some money out of his cause, while hanging behind.

“That's none of your concern, peasant,” Sir Edwin says, backhanding him.

The slap stings.

Merlin has to dig his nails into his palm not to do anything. He can't. He doesn't know whether Sir Edwin's alone or whether he has associates hanging around. Either way it doesn't much matter. If Sir Edwin finds out about Thomas and reports him, they're both dead. Sir Edwin having companions would only facilitate an arrest. Humbly, Merlin says, “I understand, Sir Ed-”

But Merlin hasn't reckoned with Thomas. In the wake of the slap, he advances on Sir Edwin with a belligerent air, wounds and all, saying, “You call yourself a nobleman--” Thomas shuffles, widening his legs and straightening his torso. Having lost his weapons on the battlefield, he stands unarmed and little more than naked. He's still a sight for sore eyes, a battle god, stepping out of another plane of existence to mete justice out. Merlin knows that's just his fancy telling him Thomas can pull off any feat, (he most certainly can't weak as he is) but he can't help appreciating Thomas' courage and actions. They're worthy of a hero of old. Unaware of Merlin's attention and burst of admiration, Thomas is ranting on. “And yet you attack commoners just because you bear a sword? That's ignominy, not nobility.”

Although Merlin highly respects Thomas for the stance he's taken in this, -- he's actually voicing Merlin's own objections to the actions of some members of the so-called nobility -- Merlin wants to point out that Thomas is the one not bearing a sword, unlike Sir Edwin. As beautiful as it is to behold, Thomas' protective attitude is at the moment ill-advised. Healing as he is, he can't fight, yet he's drawn attention to his presence in the hut, getting both Merlin and himself into trouble. Thomas is gorgeous to behold but very unwise. His attempt to take up Merlin's defence will only result in him undoing Merlin's efforts to save him. He'll just open up his stitches and they'll be where they were when Merlin first found him. If Sir Edwin doesn't do something first, naturally.

Which Sir Edwin does. 

With a leap and bound he springs forward. He unsheathes his sword and hacks at Merlin. With a blade bared and coming down at him there's little Merlin can do but make recourse to his magic. He mutters a quick spell he remembers using in times of trouble, and directs it at his enemy. The hilt of Sir Edwin's blade flares red hot like a poker put on a live blaze. Skin hissing and cracking, Muirden drops the weapon.

Thanks to his magic, Merlin has the smallest window of opportunity for reacting, so he kicks Sir Edwin in the stomach and slams the door on his head. That is enough to stun Sir Edwin and make him reel. Using that to his advantage, Merlin shoves the man out of his house. Gracelessly, Sir Edwin falls flat on his back, mouth open in a vacuous moue. 

Before anyone can do anything, Merlin straddles Sir Edwin and puts a hand to his forehead. His eyes glow and Sir Edwin falls asleep. He's out like a light. Since his enemy is downed for the time being, Merlin concentrates on a spell he's never used before. It's dark magic and Gaius warned him against it, but he can see no other solution to their present quandary. A swipe of his hands, a couple of words, and Sir Edwin's memory is wiped of recent events.

Only when the spell has been spoken does Merlin relax.

There's a minor problem to take into consideration now. While he dealt with Muirden, Merlin entirely forgot about Thomas. But now he does remember Thomaa is there and that he witnessed almost everything. This means that Merlin has to convince him that no magic was used at all. Depending on how much Thomas has seen, this doesn't seem impossible. Most people will try to think of a rational explanation before resorting to pinning things down on magic. If he acts fast, Merlin has a chance to make good with Thomas.

“How, what did you do?” Thomas asks as he staggers out of Merlin's hut.

“Nothing,” says Merlin, trying to cover his lapse at using magic. “I just shoved his head into the door.” Merlin drops his gaze to encompass Sir Edwin's unconscious form. “I needed to knock him out, you see. But now there's a problem. We can't have him waking here.”

Holding his bandaged side, Thomas says, “You don't say.”

Merlin realises how stupid his words were. He's stating the obvious, i.e., they must put some distance bteween themselves and Muirden; coming up with appropriate, sound sounding plans when one is lying isn't easy. “Well, yes, I know it's rather obvious but it's what must be done. So I was thinking I'll just go drop his body in the forest, so he wakes up far, far away from here.”

“He'll come back,” says Thomas, studying the prone form of Sir Edwin much like Merlin had. “He'll come back with more men and make you pay for what you did.”

Since Sir Edwin's still out cold Merlin takes some time to talk to Thomas and explain his plans, not mentioning his knowledge of Sir Edwin's magical memory loss and why he knows they won't be in any danger from him. He puts a hand on Thomas' shoulder and lies through his teeth. “No, he won't. I'm small fish for him. Once he wakes up at a suitable distance, he won't try and come back. What would he gain by doing that?” Merlin grows more emphatic in his espousing of his fake theory. “I'm too poor to be of real interest to him. No, he'll move on and rejoin Norfolk.”

“But you can't be sure of that. I know men like Sire Edwin and they're vindictive creatures,” says Thomas. He's working himself up to an argument but then a shadwo passes over him. In its wake he gasps and nearly buckles in Merlin's arms. The effort he's put his body through to try and defend Merlin and the commotion he's been subjected to have evidently been too much for him.

“Come,” Merlin tells him, leading him back inside, and guiltily welcoming the diversion for the change of topic it is. “You're re-opening your wounds.”

Thomas tries hold himself upright and, as he fights for balance, he says, “I'm the soldier here. I should protect you and repay you for your services.”

Despite his worry about Sir Edwin and the tension caused by his fear of Thomas having nearly discovered his abilities, Merlin laughs gently, his chest lifting as though there's no darkness in his life at all. Breathing is easy, easier than it has been in months and Merlin feels strong enough to take on the world. For now though all that is unnecessary. He needn't save anyone but Thomas. All he has to do is lead Thomas back to bed and make sure the exertion hasn't made things worse for him. So he merely places his shoulder under Thomas' armpit and walks him towards the bed.

When Thomas is safely tucked back into it, something he fusses against, Merlin says, “Now I'll have to go and dump Sir Edwin in the woods. That way he'll wake up as far from here as possible. Everything will be as right as rain, you'll see. Can you wait calmly in bed while I do this?”

Thomas looks away and Merlin knows that means Thomas doesn't want to wait it out patiently. Between them he's the man of action, the one who'd be dealing with dangers such as those represented by Sir Thomas, if things were normal. So he tries to stick to his upbringing and pleads to be allowed to do what he normally would. “If you gave me a sword I could escort you. I failed you already and--”

“My god, you're really thick,” Merlin says with a lot of emphasis on the insult, meant to deflect from the real point. “You'll won't be doing yourself any favours if you traipse around while your wound hasn't healed properly yet. I don't even want to think about what would happen if you got into a fight. They'd best you in a second.”

Thomas rises onto his elbows. “I'll have you know that I can still hold my own.”

“Well, glad to see you have enough energy to debate the point but it's still a no--”

Thomas' nostrils flare and his pout deepens. “What if something happens to you on the road? There's still Yorkists bands roaming the countryside.”

“And Lancastrian ones.”

Thomas accepts that, his partisan feelings giving way to honest assessment. “You need help. You need an escort.”

“No, I need the old cart and to take a less frequented road,” Merlin says, already planning ahead. “Please don't undo everything I've done. I'd feel responsible if you died on my watch.”

“It wouldn't be your doing,” Thomas says, grabbing him by the forearm and kneading the muscle there. “I'm a grown man who--”

“Whom I've been looking after,” Merlin says, playing on Thomas' conscience, ends and means fashion. “Please don't let me go through the guilt losing you would cause me.”

That seems to quiet Thomas' ardour to wield a sword and protect Merlin. Still Merlin doesn't trust him to stay put, not until he's extracted a promise in regard to that. Only when he has it, does Merlin leave the house to go and lose Sir Edwin in the depths of the forest.

 

**** 

 

What with loading the cart, getting Sir Edwin as far away from his hut as possible and getting back, Merlin only returns by nightfall.

By the time he does darken the door of his home, Thomas is sitting on the bed, putting on the boots he had when Merlin found him. He's otherwise nearly fully dressed, albeit in the torn clothes he'd had on when he fell on the heath.

“What do you think you're doing!” Merlin says when he sees that. Thomas seems to be intent on ignoring his wound and causing himself harm.

“Night has fallen.” Thomas cranes his head at the window as if to support his statement. “I thought something had happened to you.”

“Thomas,” Merlin says, trying to quell the exasperation he feels at Thomas' taking him for granted if only because his actions seem to come from a good place. “I'm not an idiot. I can look after myself pretty well.”

Marvellously actually, given that he can kill with a thought. Such an ability comes in handy in the world they live in, or it does provided he isn't discovered and burned at the stake. 

“You were gone for hours,” Thomas says, his mouth forming into an unhappy pucker. “I thought something had happened to you for sure.” He looks away and fiddles with the laces holding his tattered jerkin closed. “I may be for King Henry but I know that the troops that came with his queen aren't nice. They're more ready to kill, loot and pillage than anything else. I didn't want you to run into them.”

Merlin's shoulders droop but he lets himself smile a cautious, touched smile. He'll have to explain to Thomas that even if he's a peasant that doesn't mean he's an idiot unable to take care of himself. Being a commoner with little military skills doesn't make him less than a man at arms born and trained. “Thomas, I--” Merlin starts but Thomas interrupts him.

“My name's Arthur Pendragon,” not Thomas says. “Earl of Stafford, son of...”

“The Duke of Exeter,” Merlin says, remembering the name from last year, when his father mentioned it to him amid a few other bombshells Merlin still hasn't forgotten. “You're a peer of the realm... Oh my god.”

Arthur tries to gain his feet. “Please, understand my reticence. I didn't know whether we'd lost the field to Warwick and Norfolk or we'd won and I was safe. For all I know St Albans is his and I'm in enemy land. I'm worth--”

“A fortune in terms of rasom,” Merlin says, “to your father at least.”

“Yes.” Arthur tips his head back, eyes glinting proudly. “And I've been taught to act in a prudent, politic way.”

“I understand,” Merlin says. He'd known that Arthur was more than a simple soldier from the moment he'd taken in his attire on the heath. His weapons and footwear alone promised as much. When he chose the name Thomas for him that was so as to allow Arthur not to identify himself. But now here he is being served Arthur's true identity on a silver platter to be done with as he pleases. He appreciates the show of trust more than he can tell “Arthur, I – thank you...” he starts, seeking the words to convey just that.

“You don't need to thank me,” Arthur says, his eyes sparking a true blue. As he speaks, he eases himself back on the bed, back to the wall so that the latter supporting him upright. He musn't have been up to much action if he's seeking that kind of prop. And to say that he'd have gone to look for Merlin. Reckless, beautiful man that he is. “This conflict has stripped us of manners and decency. I owe you and yet withheld my name. I shouldn't have and yet here you are thanking me for doing what I should have from the beginning.”

Merlin knows where this is going or has a suspicion, which amounts to the same: Arthur is going to beat himself up for having transgressed the rules of honour he seems to live by. “The one I gave you was nice enough--” Merlin tries to deflect.

“Merlin,” Arthur starts, clearly pushing off the bed to go and reach him.

Merlin holds both hands up. “Please don't stand. I don't want you to do more damage to yourself.”

Arthur invokes his name again but Merlin turns around, marches to the cupboard and makes himself busy preparing more salve. “Arthur, I understand. I appreciate your efforts at honesty. And I'm really grateful you chose to trust me.”

Arthur tries to edge a word in.

Merlin pre-empts him. “Arthur, let's just enjoy the evening and the averted danger, shall we?”

They do just that.

 

**** 

 

Merlin rummages inside his battered wooden chest and finds the old pile of clothes he's looking for at the bottom. Without upsetting the haphazard order of his repository, he extracts the pile and places it on top of the chest. Fingering the fabric, he verifies there are no holes in the garments and when he's satisfied there aren't – he may be decent at patching people up but darning is a different matter – he leaves them on the stool by Arthur's bedside.

And thus wakes Arthur because he's no good at hovering silently.

“I'm sorry,” he says, regretting his gaucheness. If he's to recover, Arthur needs all the sleep possible. “I meant to let you sleep on.”

“What are those?” Arthur asks, as he studies the clothes Merlin's left by for him.

“Yesterday you tried to get back into your clothes on and, well, it's clear that anything but the boots isn't salvageable. So I thought I'd give you these.”

Arthur checks Merlin over. “Are these yours?” he asks, “because I don't think they'd fit me.”

“No,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “They're not mine. I think they'd actually be a decent fit.”

Arthur sits up and picks up the tunic. “These clothes look well kept. Are they a late brother's?” Arthur asks, then his voice lowering, his eyes clearly avoiding Merlin's, he continues, “A dear friend's perhaps?”

Briefly, Merlin wonders whether Arthur remembers his actions from the day he was raving, whether he recollects his attempt at kissing Merlin. Was Arthur trying to ask after a lover, enquiring into the presence of one in Merlin's life? Merlin's heartbeat quickens at the idea Arthur's interested in him. He can't help it. While he couldn't possibly have satisfied Arthur when he wasn't in his right mind, things are different now, and a not insubstantial part of Merlin warms all over at the thought of those kisses becoming real, at the prospect of Arthur wanting to know wheher he has a chance.

Though he should probably hold his horses and just answer the question. Maybe it wasn't a subtle enquiry at all.

“They were my father's,” says Merlin, looking at the clothes one last time before parting with them.

The look in Arthur's eyes softens conspicuously. “In which case I can't accept them.”

“Arthur, my father died last year,” Merlin says, wanting Arthur to see the matter in the same way Merlin does and to accept his gift. “And it's not what you think... My father and I had no relationship to speak of. I didn't really know him.”

“How could you not know your father?” Arthur asks, confusion colouring his tone.

Eyes to the floor, Merlin lifts his shoulders to his ears. “Some of us were born out of wedlock.”

“I'm so sorry,” Arthur says, his tone so aggrieved Merlin immediately believes he's genuinely as sorry as he says he is.

“What for?” Merlin asks, wondering how Arthur can both be the man who called him peasant, wishing to insult him for his lowly origins, and the one to say sorry for things he's not directly responsible for. He's sympathising with Merlin's position and that's not something Merlin would have expected of him at all. “You're not the one who killed him.”

Arthur does his best to suppress the gasp that puffs out of his mouth. “Killed? You mean he was--”

Merlin doesn't want Arthur to know the particulars about his father's death, how Merlin's father served Exeter and died because of the Duke's levity concerning troops, which he's always regarded as cannon fodder. Arthur knowing the facts wouldn't change anything – the truth of Merlin's loss – and that knowledge would only upset Arthur, since it involves Uther Pendragon. “Yeah, but there was no foul play. He was... in the muster. He died at Northampton.”

“When Richard of York fell,” Arthur says, clearly knowing the ins and outs of the conflict between King Henry's faction and the Yorkist one better than Merlin, “did he serve him?”

Merlin hedges, not wanting to reveal too much in case Arthur understands. “Does that even matter?” Merlin asks, rather rhetorically. “He wasn't so far up the social ladder that who he was fighting for matters anyway. He was called to arms; he owed his service. He went. He died.”

Arthur nods. “It doesn't matter. Even if he was Richard of York himself, I'd be thankful he lived, for he sired a good man. I would never begrudge him his allegiance.”

Merlin hangs his head, lost in a sea of memories and feelings that involve both the past and the present, the latent melancholy that comes over him whenever his father is brought up sweetened by the feelings he experiences towards Arthur. “Just take his clothes, Arthur. They'll do you more good than they possibly can do him now.”

Understanding how serious Merlin is about this, Arthur nods this time and says, “I'll guard them carefully.”

 

**** 

They're sharing a meal Arthur doesn't partake much of when Arthur says, “You know, having a father, knowing him from childhood, doesn't mean that he'll... That you'll have a relationship with the man.”

Merlin spoons the onion rings floating in his soup around the bowl without picking them up. “Are you talking from experience or just trying to soothe my wounded feelings?”

“My father and I--” Arthur begins, giving a slice of bread a bite and only continuing after he's swallowed his mouthful. “We aren't particularly close. He's my overlord and I owe him allegiance but it's not... Other families are more blessed: their familial bonds are closer.”

“You don't blame him for that?” Merlin asks, questioning Arthur's accepting tone, “for not being more available to you?”

“No,” Arthur says, putting his food by on the crate Merlin put by the bed to serve as night stand. “His life is all about service and advancement. He-- After my mother's death the cause became the most important thing in his life. He's always been embroiled in court matters. I understand why.”

“I didn't know about your mother,” Merlin says, guilt washing over him at having had Arthur listen to him lament Balinor while he himself had suffered a loss. “I'm so sorry.”

Arthur's mouth twists sideways. “I never knew her. I feel the loss of what it is to have a mother. Not--” The noise Arthur makes when gulping is audible in the near silence of Merlin's hut. “Not her specifically.”

Merlin covers Arthur's palm with his. 

 

**** 

Over the next few days Arthur starts looking definitely better. Colour comes back to his cheeks, a more vivacious sparkle lights his eyes and the fever goes away. It's the best sign Merlin can think of. That and the fact that little by little Arthur is eating more are great comforts to Merlin. Arthur's appetite even prompts him to try and cook better.

To achieve more varied results, he be-spells his little private patch of vegetable garden. He does so in order to get a little more diversity and a bigger yield. If he were alone he wouldn't bother, but, if he's to get better, Arthur needs quality nutrients. 

With all this incanting, he starts spending more time in his back garden, tending to roots and their offshoots, than he does indoors. Unless it's raining of course.

When one day he re-enters the hut, knuckles speckled with mud, it's Arthur's voice that greets him. 

“You spend a lot of time out of doors,” he says, tone extremely level and guarded. He's playing with the hem of his blankets, twisting it and then smoothing it out. “I understand that I've put you out of house and home, taken your only bed and given little in return, but I won't incommode you for long, I swear. I'm getting better and I'll soon be gone.”

It's the first time that Merlin lets himself think of the future, of when Arthur's going to get better. The thought of the emptiness that will envelop this place when Arthur's gone leaves Merlin reeling. He's lived alone for a long time now. Ever since Gaius died a few years ago. (Merlin never counts the short time Balinor spent with him as not being alone). And he's had a perfectly reasonable time of it. He doesn't understand why this projected solitude pang has come to dwell inside of him with such forlorn bitterness.

He'll do as well without Arthur as he has before.

“Don't be an idiot now,” Merlin says, ignoring Arthur's rebuke, which is, “You can't talk to a peer of the realm like that.”

“You'll find I can,” Merlin says, wearing a grin meant to chase away his previous sombreness. “Especially given the treat I've been concocting.”

“Treat?” Arthur asks, sitting up in bed so that his back is very, very straight. “What treat?”

“Seeing as you're always complaining about being bed-ridden, I thought you'd like to take a turn in the garden.” Merlin sizes Arthur up, thinking it's time for Arthur to start taking in some fresh air so he can begin recovering more fully. “Wouldn't you like that?”

Merlin's expecting a cynical rebuff. Arthur must, after all, be used to courtly dancing and refined pastimes, but he accepts the invitation with a small sideways smile. Rounded eyes go with the smile. All in all Arthur looks pleased with the outing to Merlin's orchard. He must have missed going for a romp in the open.

With am arm around his waist and Arthur's own slung around his shoulders, Merlin leads Arthur past the shaded bench and into the garden proper, modulating his pace to Arthur's, supporting him when it seems Arthur's tired. The vegetable patch Merlin tends isn't much to write home about though Merlin's quite proud of it. He loves nurturing plants that seem not to stand a chance. He rejoices in seeing them grow. He loves causing the little seedlings to burst into bloom. He also enjoys showing Arthur his work, pointing out the name of the herbs and vegetables he's planted. 

“Are all of those spices?”

“Some,” Merlin explains, leading Arthur along the orchard's paths. “Some are medicinal herbs and others serve both purposes.” Merlin cranes his chin at one of the plants. “That's rosemary. Did you know it's pretty good against joint pain? And if you wash your hair in it it leaves it shinier.”

“And what's that one?” Arthur asks, tipping his head at a plant bearing yellow flowers. 

“That's dill,” Merlin says, plucking a threadlike leaf. “You can spice your food with it and there's plenty of books that recommend its use against headaches and jaundice.”

Eyes wide, both round and clear, Arthur tips his head to the side. “Did your physician uncle teach you all of this?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, then he corrects himself. “Well, when I started out at the time – I was sixteen – I wasn't very keen to learn. I hated sitting down and be told to just spend my time reading. Gaius would open these big musty tomes before me and order me to study them. I mostly tried to get out of that. I just couldn't sit still. It was a chore and I didn'tlike chores. I preferred learning by from watching Uncle Gaius at work. I picked up potion making for example this way. I leanrt the art of patient examination as well. Gaius told me about symptoms and signs to look for. Back then that looked far less boring than having to learn from books. Then after he passed, things changed. I started consulting his books on my own.” Strangely not sad thinking of the past, Merlin stops reminiscing and gives Arthur as wide a smile as he can. “Seeing as you're still alive I think that all that cramming worked.”

Arthur's a bit out of breath when he says, “Yes, thank you for that.”

“You're very welcome, My Lord,” Merlin says, taking a mock bow. “Now let's go explore my cabbage patch.”

 

**** 

Arthur is improving so much, by leaps and bounds really, that Merlin allows him to sit up longer and longer. On one such occasion Merlin assigns Arthur some manual labour by way of having him crush the herbs needed for his salve. Merlin gives him mortar and pestle and Arthur goes at it. Despite the initial confusion as to what to do with both tools, Arthur learns how to handle them the pretty quickly. He seems to take a certain kind of pride in mincing and battering those herbs to a pulp too.

“I'm quite good I'd say,” Arthur says, tongue sticking out of his mouth as he observes the results of his continued use of the pestle.

“Yeah, we'll make a country physician out of you yet.”

Arthur puts the pestle down, smearing the wooden table top with essential oils and ground seeds. “I don't think it would be too bad, you know, living your life out on a farm.” He looks out the window and exhales. “It wouldn't be too bad at all.”

For a moment Merlin experiences a vision of a future like that, with Arthur staying in his hut, or if that should turn out to be impossible, becoming his next door neighbour. If he left his life behind, if his family thought him fallen at St Albans, Arthur could do all those things. He could build a hut next to Merlin's and become a farmer. He could drive to market with him and learn how to lie low so as not to let others guess he was a nobleman born. The sham could pay off and he might have a simple but easy and beautiful life of it. 

Merlin lets out a breath. His is a fine vision but no more true than any of Merlin's childhood imaginings. Merlin might hear voices coming from the woods, but he's never been a seer. There's no indulging in wishful thinking. “Your tastes are too refined for that,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes and chasing away the longing for that dream that could never be. Arthur may dream idyll dreams but he's not that kind of man. “You wouldn't last a day as a farmer.”

Arthur's head jerks up. The movement is sudden to the point of being sharp, but then his muscles relax, his expression softens, as if he's acknowledging a partial truth, and he says, “Maybe, maybe not.”

 

**** 

 

In the dim light given off by the candle, Merlin sits on the bed. It's late enough but Arthur's slept through the afternoon and past dinner time. Recognising the signs of healing, Merlin let him doze on and take things at his own pace, but now the situation has changed a little. Merlin is himself tired, eyelids heavy, eyes puffy, his own body lethargic with the warmth coming from the fireplace. If he waits any longer he'll fall asleep and then he'll have skipped Arthur's session with the salve. It's helped knitting that horrible wound affecting Arthur very well. It's done wonders. Considering that Merlin wants Arthur to get the fullest and speediest recovery no application should be missed. 

He can't be dismissive of Arthur's health. But he can't wait lest he fall asleep.

Recognising there's nothing else to be done but be a little rude, he places the cup with the salve between his knees and gently shakes Arthur. “Arthur, hello, Arthur, you have to wake.”

Arthur groans and smacks his lips together. 

The familiarity of those sounds makes Merlin's stomach curl with well-being, a desire to spread good will onto the world while holding onto these moments he and Arthur are sharing. Still, Arthur must be woken and Merlin can't linger on sensations that aren't doing anybody but him good. They're but a fleeting, though warm, solace. “Arthur, it's time for your medication.”

Arthur blinks stupidly at him, eyes wide and soft with sleep, but then recognition clearly sets in and he clamps a hand around Merlin's forearm, running it up and down in a soothing motion. “I thought you were a dream.”

“A dream?” Merlin chuckles, pleased with the warmth Arthur's rubbing of his arm engenders. “Hardly.”

“You are though,” Arthur says, tilting his head to the side on the pillow, strands of blond hair crowning him with a would-be halo.

For a short spell Merlin believes Arthur's delirious again, to the point that he palms his forehead to check against any fever resurgence, but then Arthur's words become clearer in light of his actions. Pushing off his back, Arthur slides his hand upwards until it is curled around Merlin's neck.

He's breathing fast and so is Merlin but he's neither letting go nor saying anything. It's as though he's weighing the situation, trying it on for size. 

Not knowing what to do, only aware of his heart kicking against his ribcage like a horse chomping at the bit, Merlin waits him out.

Then Arthur sits up, cranes his head to the side and catches Merlin's lips with his. On an exhaled breath, he pulls back and says, “I know the world thinks it wrong, but I hope you don't and that--” Arthur gazes down. “My attentions aren't unwanted.”

“They're not—” Merlin begins, seeking Arthur's mouth with his, putting light pressure on his lips, sliding his between Arthur's. “They're not unwanted.”

“The world condemns this,” Arthur says, his hands febrile on Merlin's upper body despite his acknowledgement of society's condemnation. “I want you to be sure.”

“I am,” Merlin says, securing the salve bowl on the night-stand. “I am if you are.”

In answer Arthur pulls him down on top of him. “I find you most definitely lovely.” 

“Good,” Merlin says, bracing himself over Arthur so as not to put too much pressure on his wounds. They're healing and Merlin doesn't want to do anything to harm Arthur. 

Making Merlin sigh, Arthur runs both hands up Merlin's sides. “You have a high opinion of yourself.”

“Which you share since you called me lovely,” Merlin murmurs against Arthur's cheekbone.

Merlin moves, grinding their hips together. Arthur sighs, cupping Merlin's face to lead to another kiss.

It starts with a light press of lips against the corner of his mouth, as tentative as their first was. It continues when Arthur runs his hands under Merlin's tunic. Those hands are both gentle and determined; they know what to do. 

Thanks to their touch Merlin is already craving more of Arthur, more than he can possibly get from all their kissing.

When strong fingers dig into his neck, Merlin exhales; when they thread in his hair, playing with the curls at the base of his neck, Merlin goes almost pliant in Arthur's arm. He moans when Arthur's thumbs rub the tender skin behind each jutting ear, his fingers positioning Merlin's head in a lilt that's designed for a kiss. Without any hesitation whatsoever Merlin's lips part for Arthur's tongue. It slips in deep, curling around Merlin's, giving Merlin a chance to return the kiss. The more they do kiss, the more Merlin quickens his movements on top of Arthur. 

As a shiver courses through him, Arthur pulls at him, drawing his hands upwards and along the planes of Merlin's back that are hidden under his tunic. 

As Merlin pushes down, Arthur presses up. They gain some momentum even though it's not much. As they do, their breaths deepen. While they buck and thrust with their hips, stirring each other to a fine frenzy of movement, their cocks grow. “When I was ill and didn't get much of what was going on,” Arthur says, low and breathless, “I thought you were a fairy creature. I decided you were too perfect for this world. But I still wanted you with a burning I'd never known before. I saw you and never thought we could have this,” Arthur says, his voice wrecked with the huskiness of desire. "I thought I'd die from the longing."

“A fairy creature.” Merlin chuckles. “Fevers can do wonders.”

“No, you can.”

Pleased with the praise, Merlin mouths along the curve of Arthur's jaw, putting kisses on it and sucking as he goes.

Arthur must like the touch, for he rumbles against Merlin's throat, cupping Merlin's face even while he releases soft noises that get muffled by the kiss he renews. Playfully, he nibbles on Merlin's lips and when he lets go of them with a smacking fleshy sound, he says, “You'll always be my fairy physician.”

Kiss ended, Merlin's mouth brushes against Arthur's ear, his tone low. “I'll accept that title for now if it gets me more of this.” He traces his tongue across the rounded whorls of Arthur’s ear, sucks in the lobe.

“Is that right?”

“Yes,” Merlin says with a breathy drawl he never meant to let out before it slipped past his mouth. “Because I want more of you.” 

Arthur seems to understand Merlin's need because he acts swiftly to get Merlin naked. He pulls his tunic over his head in one swift move and his breeches down, past his arse, but not past his knees, the fabric clinging to the sweaty backs of Merlin's thighs. As Merlin lifts himself off, Arthur grabs his cock and starts pumping it. 

To stifle any moan that might slip past him and chase the slight frisson of pain it would give him, Merlin sinks his teeth in his lower lip and grinds against Arthur, his fingers slipping on his shoulder as he scrabbles for purchase. This way he gets some leverage to start a rocking motion that melts his very bones.

Arthur's hand is quick on his cock, swipes and twists of his wrist sparking fire where his touch falls, all friction and hotness. As Arthur changes his grip and smears him with the pre-come Merlin's oozing from his slit, Merlin starts levering himself up and down, hips shooting forwards and into Arthur's fist out of an ages-old rhythm that his body knows instinctively.

“Is it too dry?” Arthur asks, teeth grazing Merlin's jawline and the side of his face, puffs of hot breath unspooled against Merlin's skin.

Even though Merlin's scarcely capable of rational thought, he manages to let out a pertinent statement. “Use the salve.”

After pealing back the foreskin to expose the head of Merlin’s cock, Arthur guides his fingers down Merlin's length, eliciting more sounds from Merlin, more pleasure that works its way into his marrow. “The salve you use for my wounds?” he asks, as if he's entirely innocent of wrecking Merlin with his rough but incendiary touch, as if the query is mundane and not related to sex at all.

Despite the small discomfort due to the lack of lubrication Merlin finds Arthur's hands on him to be exactly what he wants. He's not sure Arthur's aware of that, but there's time to tell him. It can be done tomorrow or the day after. In the meanwhile he'd rather ensure they have the best possible experience right now. With that view, Merlin leads the conversation back to Arthur's question. This time he tries speaking up properly though. “Yes, that one. It's all natural. It--” Another pass of Arthur's hand steals his breath. “It won't do me any harm.”

Listening to his advice, Arthur smears some of the salve on his prick. It's cool and prickly and makes things very wet and slippery. It's so good Merlin sighs and speeds up, fucking the palm cupping his length, moving faster and faster.

“That's good,” Merlin says, not so much because Arthur needs to know this but because he's drunk with pleasure. 

“I want you to come, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, the heel of his hand rough on his engorged flesh. “I want you to come for me.”

It's the call of Arthur's voice that does it more than the wet friction. It's Arthur's level of expectation more than the sex act itself. Merlin shudders and throbs come on Arthur's hand and belly, coating the space between them.

He should be too tired and sapped of his strength to be able to do much, but the desire he feels to reciprocate makes him act as soon as the shivers are past. When he's recovered enough, he lifts Arthur's shirt up his chest, where it stays stuck at armpit level, and slips down Arthur's body, putting kisses to his nipples, chest and stomach.

“Your mouth is so...” Arthur tells him, without finding the words to define what his mouth is, his chest rising to meet it all the same.

Still the words and gesture give Merlin an idea. He starts brushing his lips along the trail of fuzzy hairs pointing downwards from Arthur's navel, mouthing the taut flesh he finds.

Going rigid, Arthur arches his body to meet Merlin's mouth. At the same time he guides his head lower down, fingers in his hair, so that Merlin is now tonguing the ridges of Arthur's trembling stomach. “I shouldn't dare ask,” he pants, but his body does it for him, pushing up and up.

Understanding what is wanted, Merlin slips Arthur's trousers down his legs, just as much as is necessary for him to free his cock. When Arthur's cock is bared, Merlin sees that it's gorgeous and thick, ruddy with the rush of blood that's making it stand stiff.

Slowly, Merlin mouths Arthur's cock, kissing the hot skin. 

As Merlin spreads the dampness he finds at the tip all along the length, Arthur trembles and thrashes. When Merlin uses the phantom touch of teeth, grazing the ridge of skin under the crown, Arthur writhes and releases a breathy puff of air that sounds much like a whimper. When Merlin presses his tongue flat against the vein, slicking Arthur up with his saliva, Arthur does more than that, the sound he lets out much deeper, starting echo-like within his ribcage. It turns into a curse when Merlin starts flicking his tongue up and down Arthur's length, wetting it thoroughly before he sinks on the spongy head of Arthur's cock and sucks. 

As Merlin goes further down on him, Arthur rocks his hips. It's a bit much since Merlin's mouth is full of Arthur. To make it easier so he won't choke, Merlin steadies Arthur, his hands at his waist. When Arthur is no longer wildly thrusting in his mouth, making his breathing more difficult, Merlin is free to follow a less punishing rhythm. He bobs his head, he suckles and then lets Arthur's cock pop out of his mouth. When Arthur hisses and pulls at his hair, Merlin strokes Arthur's flesh with his hand while swirling his tongue around the sensitive tip. For a change he pushes it into his slit.

Hips lifting off the mattress, Arthur goes wild. Merlin knows this is as far as he can take Arthur, he can't swallow more and past this Arthur would ride a crest of pleasure that is too close to pain for comfort. Realising this, he touches Arthur with both fingers and lips. One last foray of his tongue, wet kisses crowing the head of Arthur's cock and Arthur's coming, silent when his body locks down on a breath not taken.

As Arthur cools down, his skin no longer heated by the pulse of his orgasm, Merlin lavishes kisses on his inner thigh, leaving indentations and marks where his teeth pass. They fade all too quickly but Arthur's words don't. “I'll always remember this.”

 

**** 

With Arthur healing they don't do much more than that. Sex isn't their priority though it happens as often as their youth requires and Arthur's condition will allow. Sometimes Merlin takes him in hand; sometimes Arthur does. At other times it's mutual. One time Merlin feeds Arthur his cock, Arthur horizontal on the bed, his head propped up by pillows, his neck tendons straining as Merlin fills him with his fattened cock. At first Arthur found the position embarrassing, asserting he should be more active, but something drives him wild when they actually do it, making his eyes spark and his nostrils flare with a passion Merlin's never seen in him before, till he's the one to ask for a repeat performance.

Another night, Merlin pushes inside Arthur slowly, so as not to hurt him, kissing Arthur's face all the while. He tries to do all the work so that Arthur won't have to tire himself, but Arthur proves strong enough to topple Merlin, changing their positions so that he's the one seated on his cock, thigh muscles filling and releasing as he levers himself up and down on Merlin's length.

Merlin's never known sex to be like this. For him his leanings have been a life long secret, sex a hushed and hurried affair carried on in the dark, steeped in silences that are just like lies. The world isn't accepting of Merlin's desire for a kiss bestowed on a fellow man. No one would approve of him spending inside Arthur, beautiful warrior Arthur Pendragon, but it's still the most single beautiful thing to happen to him.

It transcends everything.

 

**** 

During the last fortnight of the month of February the weather holds only to turn again when you least expect it. There's storms and sunny days, middling days and days best forgotten. Nature tries to thrive on the sunny days, pushing for the warmth of spring, but then it goes back into hibernation, the air chilly as winds hit the South again.

It's a struggle Merlin loves watching; the battle for spring and rebirth. The more so since, with the armies retreating, the countryside has been left in peace. Pillaging is a thing of the past. That's why he allows himself an outing to the nearby market town.

On coming back from St Albans on a visit to Freya, Merlin picks up some news that in his isolation he'd apparently missed. 

When, upon coming back from his unscheduled trip, he sheds his mantle and greets Arthur, he shares all he's learnt. “Warwick has retreated to Oxford; the Queen doesn't have London since she was refused admission within the city walls, and the Earl of March is still in Wales.”

“Queen Margaret hasn't taken London then,” Arthur says, stopping snapping peas. Before Merlin came in he'd apparently been trying to make lunch.

“No,” Merlin says, confused as to why Arthur thinks this so important. “But she won the battle, her husband's free again.”

“Without London,” Arthur explains, grim faced, “she hasn't got the crown.”

“Is London so important?”

“Oh yes,” Arthur says, the breath nearly leaving him. “London not opening its gates to her is a dire warning. It means this conflict is not over.” Passing a hand through his hair, Arthur sighs. “I'd hoped our fate was decided at St Albans. That all strife could cease and for all this to be over.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, and that's the only commentary he makes, for he can see Arthur's mind is elsewhere and certainly not on him.

He joins Arthur mashing peas.

 

**** 

 

He should have known. He should really have known but he'd hoped his sense of forewarning was entirely wrong. Yet Arthur's absence on a fine March morning surprises him as much as it doesn't. 

Deep down he's always known that Arthur's a warrior and that if duty called, he would follow. Somehow he's always known that the time they had together couldn't be forever. And yet the cold seeps from the vacated sheets and into his soul. A quick look at his small hut is enough to tell Merlin he's alone.

It's barely past dawn, the sky still shimmering with the deep blue of night even if the darkness is lifting at its zenith. Merlin places his head back on the pillow and tells himself to sleep some more and forget about Arthur.

Arthur will be a dream. A nice dream he dreamt that night. Merlin will adapt to living without him as he did to living with him.

But sleep won't come and no amount of tossing and turning can change that. So Merlin does the only thing he can do; he throws on some clothes and runs pell mell out of his hut.

Using his magic to orientate himself and to feel the thread of life that is Arthur, Merlin runs cross country, following the path down into vales and climbing steep ridges. He crosses fords and dashes through a thick set thicket to overtake Arthur.

Since Arthur doesn't have a mount anymore – must have lost it in battle – Merlin doesn't deem the enterprise impossible. So he speeds and speeds, lungs bursting with it, till he locates Arthur on the crest of a golden hill.

Merlin's at the bottom when he calls out, “Wait, wait for me.”

As if suddenly winded, Arthur stops in his tracks. He doesn't turn, but Merlin's sure he's heard him, so he repeats his words.

This time Arthur twists his body sideways, his profile bathed in the gold of an early morning sun, a colour that merges with that of the vegetation. “I left without a word because no words are good enough,” he says.

“Probably not,” Merlin says, but he's not sure his speech carries, so he bridges the gap between them, rushing to Arthur, hoping there's still a chance.

“Parting ways is hardly what I want,” Arthur says, eyes wet with tears Merlin didn't think him capable of shedding. With his words he clears a doubt Merlin did have. For Merlin did wonder whether Arthur left because he didn't care. And now he now longer asks himself that; the pain in Arthur's averted eyes and tense body is plain to see. He can read dejection in the slump of his shoulders, sadness in the curl of his mouth, wretchedness in the lines on his brow “But duty calls. The House of Lancaster is in danger and I must serve. I can't sit it out, wishing nothing was happening.” Arthur balls his fists. “It _is_ happening and it would be cowardly of me to ignore it.”

“I understand that.”

“Then you'll see why I can't stay.” Arthur's sad, welling eyes probe Merlin's as if searching for some kind of absolution he daren't ask for. 

“Yes.” Merlin knows now that no man can divorce Arthur from his duty. “I can see that.”

“Then it's goodbye, Merlin,” Arthur says, grazing his knuckles against Merlin's in a gesture that Merlin reads as a fond, private farewell. 

Merlin's heart breaks in two and reforms at that. It's born under a new shape, fortified by a new conviction. “Let me come with you.”

“You're no Lancastrian,” Arthur says, stating the obvious, considering their past back and forths. Merlin's made it amply clear; he belongs to no man. He has no cause. No cause but Arthur.

Merlin squares his shoulders and says, “I haven't changed.”

“And no soldier.”

Merlin is more of a killing machine than any soldier but he keeps that secret close. “I know,” he says. “I'm pretty bad at all things doing with tactics.”

“If it's not to serve King Henry then I don't see how you can embark on this?” Arthur starts, searching Merlin's eyes. Is that hope Merlin can see reflected in Arthur's own?

Merlin shares his plan. “I can be your manservant. I'm sure noblemen such as you must have servants.”

Arthur's eyes narrow, but they do so with a glint of hope shining in them. “They do. But--”

“Then let me be yours,” Merlin's says, a plea seasoned with a grin.

“You realise that would upset your entire life,” Arthur says, looking in the direction of Merlin's home. “Uproot you. Endanger you.”

With a breath of cold air he seems to push out and then swallow again, Merlin says, “I'd rather die at your side, serving and protecting you, than live the life I led before.”

“It was a life to be proud of.”

Arthur's use of the past tense registers with Merlin as well as Arthur's new found appreciation for the humble, simple things in life. Merlin smiles, saying nothing, just grinning delightedly at Arthur, no fear for the unknown that is his unfolding future marring his present joy.

“You realise we won't be able to carry on--” Arthur waves his hand about in an approximation of a lewd gesture that fails entirely to be rude and ends up being endearing “--as before. We shall have to keep our true relationship a secret.”

Merlin's eyes are surely dancing with merriment when he says, “I'm pretty good at keeping secrets.”

“Then I suppose you have a new job,” Arthur says, clapping him on the back before stealing a kiss that's almost tentative and chaste.

From that day forward Merlin calls himself the Earl of Stafford's manservant, although he's not only that.

No, he's much much more. But that is a secret no one is aware of. Officially, Merlin is merely Arthur's servant, the man who helps his lord don chain-mail and armour, the man who divests him of the same when the battle is over.

For there's more strife in their immediate future.

And if the war continues, if you can call this relentless bidding for the throne a war, Merlin will keep Arthur alive, so he can fight it for as long as it lasts.

**Author's Note:**

> The battle you see the aftermath of is the Second Battle of St Albans. During it, the Earl of Warwick had command of the centre army line while the Duke of Norfolk and Montagu led the right and lefts respectively. In its aftermath four thousand men lay dead around the town.
> 
> After the battle the Lancastrians failed to occupy London, and as a result retreated to the north. The Duke of York's eldest surving son, Edward, Earl of March, became King under the name Edward IV. He gathered his followers armies and won a victory at the Battle of Towton in March 1461.
> 
> The Duke of Exeter did really exist, and that of Earl of Stafford was truly one ofe the family titles. He had no heirs though and didn't influence history, so I took his title and gave it to Uther, and that of Earl of Stafford to Arthur as his son. Just to make matters more credible historically, a wee bit.
> 
> The heath mentioned is Bernards Heath, where part of the battle took place. The weather conditions were really so damp much of the Yorkist artillery apparently failed to fire.


End file.
